Chapter Seven
Justice
Creed’s voice cuts through the noise of the bar like a gunshot. “Justice. Outside. Now.”
The bottle’s only half-empty, but there’s no arguing with that tone. Out back, the night’s cool, heavy with the smell of fuel and smoke. Creed leans against his bike, arms folded, eyes sharp.
“Devil says Jet’s been cooped up for too long. Take her out. Show her the view. Maybe some air will help her remember what it feels like to be normal.”
“That an order or a suggestion?”
A smirk ghosts across his face. “You know the difference.”
He doesn’t wait for a reply, just heads inside again, leaving me outside wondering what the hell Creed’s thinking.
Jet steps out of the clubhouse doorway, arms wrapped tight around herself. She’s wearing the same battered jacket Devil loaned her. Her hair is pulled back, eyes wary but bright in the moonlight.
“Creed wants you to see the city,” I state, feeling as though he’s pushing her too far, too fast.
“Creed wants a lot of things,” she fires back, suspicion alive in her voice.
“Maybe,” the reply comes with a shrug, “but this one’s easy. Hop on.”
She studies the bike as if it’s alive. “Never been on one.”
I climb on and smile at her. “Then tonight’s a first.” The hand offered isn’t a demand, it’s a choice.
For a second, it looks like she’ll turn around and walk back inside. Then her chin lifts, and she swings a leg over, settling behind me. Light. Careful. Close enough that warmth seeps through my leather.
The engine roars to life, and the world narrows to asphalt and the hum beneath us. Streetlights blur as we tear down the coast road, wind cutting through everything that’s been festering inside.
At first, she’s rigid, her hands hovering, body stiff. But miles roll by, and the tension bleeds away. Her palms find my sides, tentative at first, then firming up when the bike hits a curve.
When we stop at a lookout, the ocean stretches black and endless under the moon. The city glows in the distance, far enough away that it looks almost clean.
Jet slides off, hair wild from the wind, eyes softer than before. “Why bring me here?”
“Needed the quiet,” I say truthfully. “You looked like you did too.”
She folds her arms across her chest and stares at the horizon. “Hawk used to talk about rides like this. Said the world felt bigger when you’re on two wheels.”
“Smart guy.”
“Dead guy,” Jet corrects, voice flat. “Because he trusted the wrong people.”
“That wasn’t on him.”
She laughs, with no humor in it. “You sound sure.”
“He believed in something worth dying for.” The words taste like truth. “That matters.”
Silence stretches. The wind whips hair across her face, Jet doesn’t bother pushing it away.
“He used to say the Bastards were family,” she murmurs. “You really believe that? Family?”
“Every damn day.”
Her gaze finally meets mine, searching for the lie. Whatever she finds there must surprise her, because the fight drains from her shoulders.
“Maybe he was right,” she whispers.
The ride back is slower. She settles behind me, closer this time. Her palms rest lightly at my sides, and every breath she takes seems to echo through me. The warmth of her chest seeps through leather and muscle, steady and real, anchoring me in a way nothing else has in years.
The road hums beneath us, wind whipping past, it’s the sort of night that makes a man remember he’s not supposed to walk alone. And with every mile, the question claws deeper—why her? Why this woman, all scarred and stubborn and broken in ways I can’t fix?
Jet doesn’t belong in my world, but the weight of her behind me feels right. Like maybe for the first time, I’m not just riding to outrun something, I’m riding toward something.
No words are needed. The silence between us says everything I can’t.